


Crowley and His Very, Very, Tight, Tight Jeans

by shouldbeover



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Time, Humor, M/M, Making an Effort (Good Omens), david tennant's tight jeans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-23 21:45:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19710055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shouldbeover/pseuds/shouldbeover
Summary: A demon and a angel make an effort, but the physical changes have unexpected consequences.





	Crowley and His Very, Very, Tight, Tight Jeans

**Author's Note:**

> Notes at the end.
> 
> "...and he always, always wears very, very, tight, tights."  
> Queen Elizabeth I, as played by Miranda Richardson, in Black Adder II

It was a bright and glorious morning. How could it not be?

An angel and a demon had Made an Effort, and what a lovely effort it had been.

So energetic had been their efforts, that Aziraphale had actually fallen asleep on a bed that was much more comfortable than it had been the morning before when he had mainly used it to sort and fold his clothes before putting them away.

The last time Aziraphale had slept, a bed consisted of a straw stuffed pallet suspended on ropes that had to be tightened regularly lest the occupants sink into the middle and not be able to get out. The mattress he owned in his flat above the bookshop had been purchased at some point in the 1930s and consisted of four-inch steel springs wrapped in thin, quilted batting and covered in ticking. Crowley had taken one look and said, “Oh, no, Angel, not on that.” Apparently, what he had miracled up was called ‘memory foam’ and was very nice indeed.

Crowley, of course, had drifted to sleep, curled into Aziraphale’s side, after some tender cuddling, soft whispers, and exchanges of loving words. Aziraphale had watched his demon sleep. Crowley was so soft in sleep, sharp expression relaxed, the veneer of indifference, mockery, and cynicism he maintained during the day melted away. His spindly limbs wrapped tightly around Aziraphale’s soft waist, and his head rested over Aziraphale’s heart.

Relaxed, safe, and oh, so happy, Aziraphale had found himself growing sleepy for the first time in centuries, and his eyes had drifted shut.

Now he woke to the warm sunlight peering through the curtains. He stretched, seldom used muscles pleasantly sore, and some delicious aches in some very new places as well.

To his surprise and disappointment, Crowley was not still asleep beside him. He had a moment of panic and doubt, wondering if perhaps the night had not meant as much to Crowley as it had to him, but then he heard a crash from the shop below, disturbing, but reassuring in that it confirmed that Crowley had not slipped away, to be gone for decades or even centuries, or perhaps—horrifyingly—forever.

“Buggering, bloody, fucking, hell!” came Crowley’s voice.

Aziraphale scrambled out of bed, grabbed a dressing gown and rushed downstairs.

Crowley was standing near the sofa in the backroom where clothes had been discarded in haste the night before, putting on, or rather attempting to put on his very, very, tight, tight, jeans.

He was hopping about on one foot, yanking on the legs, which explained the crash of a stack of books and the wine glasses from the night before.

“My dear?” Aziraphale began.

Crowley turned and glared at him. “How do they do it?”

Aziraphale bustled into the room and started to tidy up the mess, the books by hand, and the wine glasses with a wave.

“Do what?”

“How do humans…do this?” Crowley waved unhappily at his groin where he was struggling to do up his zipper over…

Neither of them had been overly generous with their efforts. Quite modest, in fact, given their inexperience and a determination not to overwhelm or scare the other, but apparently, it was enough to make it difficult for Crowley to put on his skin-tight jeans.

Aziraphale valiantly fought the urge to laugh and failed. “Oh, my dear Crowley. You look so funny.”

“Sssnot funny, Angel! It’sss ssserious.” Crowley pouted. “Thessse are very ssstylish.”

“Well, obviously human males do it all the time. Perhaps you’re putting them on wrong?”

Crowley looked at him as if he had two heads. “How does one put on trousers WRONG? I’ve been doing it for centuries!”

“Yes, but not with…” Aziraphale waved to where Crowley’s newly formed genitals were bulging out of the trouser opening.

“Ngk,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale smiled sweetly and said, “Why don’t I go make tea and we can figure out what to do, hmm?”

“Tea doesn’t solve everything,” muttered Crowley.

Aziraphale ignored this blasphemy and went into the little kitchen to turn on the kettle, and let out the full guffaw he’d been holding in.

When he came back with the tea tray, Crowley was lying on the floor with his hips in the air, just managing to fasten the button at his slim waist.

The sight of Crowley like that caused a little flutter in Aziraphale’s new parts, which was not at all helpful. He put down the tray and pulled Crowley to his feet. Crowley tugged at the crotch a few times, shook out his legs and wobbled to the sofa.

“It’sss not so bad,” he grumbled, “just takes some getting used to.” He sat down, and then quickly leapt up again wincing. “Auuggghhh! Humans must not feel as much as we do. That’sss terrible. How do they ever reproduce?” He undid the pants again and sat down gingerly.

Aziraphale started pouring the tea, mainly to stop himself from staring at Crowley’s groin. “Well, my dear, you have three choices.”

“Do I?”

“Yes.” He handed Crowley his cup of tea and sat back with his own in his armchair. “One, you can try and get used to them.”

“How?”

“Oh, I don’t know, walking about a great deal, getting up out of chairs several times.”

“What are the other choices?”

“Two, you could take them away when you’re you know…not naked.”

A flicker of a smirk flashed across Crowley’s face, but quickly disappeared.

“That’sss a lot of trouble, and a lot of miracles.”

Aziraphale smiled inwardly. He had rather been hoping that there would be many more times when both he and Crowley were naked in the near future. “Quite so, or…”

“Or?”

“You could buy looser trousers. A bit more room, in the…you know. Trousers haven’t always been this tight.”

Crowley pouted, “But thisss isss the fashion NOW,” he said plaintively.

Aziraphale stared into his teacup as if searching for strength. “I’ve often wished…”

“What?”

“Well, I’ve often wished that you wouldn’t wear your trousers so tight, my dear, and rather more so now.”

“Now?” Crowley said with a frown.

Aziraphle blushed. “I’ve found them…quite distracting, if you must know. You sashaying about, with your hips, and… Very hard to notice anything else.”

Crowley smiled, wickedly, “And why more so now?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips, “Well, now I KNOW, don’t I? And…” he flapped his hand weakly, “I’d rather that everyone else not!”

“What?”

He finally looked up, “Oh, my dear heart. Don’t tell me you don’t know how people’s eyes are drawn to you. I’ve seen them. Eyeing you up and down like a choice steak, wondering…”

“What?” Crowley repeated, mouth hanging open.

“Wondering what you’ve got in your trousers!” Aziraphale finished. “And I’d rather…really rather that no one know but me!”

Crowley grinned, somehow managing to be both lascivious and tender, “Oh, Angel, no one but you ever will.”

They smiled at one another soppily for a few moments, until Crowley finally broke the gaze and sadly looked down at his lap. “I suppose I could get slightly looser pants. Maybe still tight in the thighs.”

Aziraphale stifled the thought that he’d rather Crowley went about in a full burka, away from anyone else’s eyes but his own, but that was selfish, and controlling and he would never really ask that.

“You know,” he murmured, fingers tapping on the arm of the sofa, “I’ve heard that baggy trousers are coming back in fashion.”

Aziraphale did not mention that he had, in fact perused some fashion magazines at the newsstand, picturing Crowley in the lovely, well-cut clothes. “Yes, all over fashion week, apparently.”

Crowley grinned, “Really?”

“You would be quite the trend setter.”

“Well, I’ll be. I could be Instagram famous!”

“Insta-what?”

“Never mind. I’ll take a look. Maybe pop over to Paris. You could come. We could…have crepes!”

Aziraphale beamed at him, “Oh, my dear! What a lovely thought!”

(Shortly thereafter, Crowley divested himself of the offending trousers, and that led to several things that only Aziraphale, and perhaps Herself, would ever see.) 

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I have fallen in. My third OTP.
> 
> So, I wrote a post about Crowley's tight trousers on Tumblr, but since I post erratically, and hadn't declared myself as Good Omens overwhelmed, it didn't get much traction, but it niggled in my brain, and this is the result. 
> 
> I really hadn't meant to launch into this OTP with humor--beyond the fact that Good Omens fic should always HAVE humor--but this is the one I got done. It was terribly funny to me to remember, after the fact, that "...very, very, tight..." was said by Miranda Richardson.
> 
> Original post:  
> I’ve been thinking, as one does, about Crowley and how he’s probably never “made the effort” because then he wouldn’t be comfortable in his very, very, tight, tight, pants, and how after he makes the effort for his angel, he’s like, “OH MY SOMEBODY. HOW DO HUMANS GET THESE THINGS IN THERE WITHOUT SITTING ON THEM?” 
> 
> I might be thinking of a fic.
> 
> I might be hoping an artist would draw it, with Aziraphale in his nicely cut trousers laughing his head off.
> 
> I might be wondering how David Tennant manages to wear such tight, tight pants.


End file.
